


rust

by thethrillof



Category: The Batman (Cartoon)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-18
Updated: 2014-12-18
Packaged: 2018-03-02 01:00:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2793992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thethrillof/pseuds/thethrillof
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The color of Arkham's insides may be unexpected, but they're no less hated for it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	rust

Riddler loathes the color orange.

From the outside, one wouldn’t expect it to be the main color of this asylum-in-name-only, but it is. It crawls over every wall and glares from every light they haven’t replaced in the past  _decade_. The color’s dim rather than screaming neon, but he would almost prefer it that way. 

Perhaps a few years ago his snarled threats in riddling form (barely, most of the dimwits don’t even understand what their answers are no matter how easy, but they understand _tone_ ) would have gotten him a round in solitary, but in middle of the crowd that includes Joker and Penguin and the mentally/physically shattered guards they respectively leave behind, it’s brushed off as ‘a mood’ and no actions are taken against him. In fact, he’s considered one of the better inmates, and so he receives a few privileges the others wouldn’t be given by even the most dimwitted asylum authority figures.

Some of those are paper, and tape, and even writing utensils that  _aren’t_  chalk.

He makes full use of them, lining the walls with sheets of paper covered in writing, some of which he puts in code that’s  _just_  decipherable because he has to give the damn psychiatrists some belief in progress and somehow  _understanding_  him and so keeping himself lower on the list of importance and more easily looked over.

Some of them are crossword puzzles, both ones given to him, and some are ones he’d created out of frustration on his own and turned over and tried to put out of his mind to perhaps be a slight challenge  _eventually_. (It never really worked.)

Some of them are entirely random: several food schedules, most of them outdated since the place goes through cooks just slightly more slowly than psychiatrists (Joker is incredibly picky about his food); several pages of a thesaurus in German, a language he doesn’t yet know but learns in his spare time; sheet music; a few lists of exactly what inmate is causing trouble and why (and he isn’t stupid enough to write down his own plans for that, but he can glance over and plot an escape when one of them hits a particular level of anger within seconds and predict most of it down to quarter of an hour of when). 

Even some blank paper, for later use, he says. And it’s true, he generally does use it later, but that’s not the main reason. He just hates to see the _walls_.

He supposes he’s fortunate in that he didn’t get a padded cell, the same stifling color but terrible to stick things onto.

If he had his own way, he’d never be inside any cell at all, but even he can admit at least to himself that escaping directly after breaking ribs or an electrocution or even several days without sleeping wouldn’t have a point.

He does what he can with his paper, and he curls up on his bed—more of a cot, really—keeping his eyes on those when they’re not closed.

The orange reminds him of rusted metal, and at night the dark shade along with the bumps in the brick give an illusion of  _something_  moving against it. It’s smothering in the day. It’s always too warm too closed off too too too much and he plots his escape incessantly, keeping himself still and patiently waiting at the concept of seeing green and anything else outside.


End file.
